The Keepers (5 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING
H
ORACE BOARDED THE
77
WESTBOUND
. The bus was mostly empty, just a handful of older people up front. Horace headed for the very back row, then realized someone was already sitting there—a girl all but hidden beneath a dark green hoodie. She gave off a distinctly unfriendly vibe. Horace took the seat right behind the rear doors instead, a tingle of something—excitement? fear?—in his chest. He was headed back to the House of Answers.

He'd told his parents he was going shopping for Mother's Day, but Mother's Day was pretty far from the front of his mind now. He could not stop worrying about the thin man. He pondered for the twentieth time that morning what he would do if he encountered the thin man again, especially since Mrs. Hapsteade had really only given him one piece of advice:
avoid him
. Horace had the leestone, of course,
whatever good that was supposed to do. He took it out of his pocket—still warm, but it had faded badly overnight. It was completely clear around the edges, all the color shrunken into a jagged purple cloud in the center.

The bus turned the corner onto Wexler Street and immediately wheezed to a stop. Horace looked up and sucked in a gasp of surprise. The thin man was clambering aboard the bus, as if Horace's own thoughts had conjured him. Horace ducked down, peering around the seat.

The thin man looked even more inhuman than last time, like some monstrous insect. He was far too tall to stand up straight on the bus, so he more crawled than walked, bent over between his knees. As he crept down the aisle, his elbows knifed over the heads of the other passengers. They seemed to see him, but clearly not the way Horace was seeing him, because they weren't staring. The thin man spoke to them, his head swiveling on his long neck, his pleasantly lilting voice so out of place coming from that mouth: “Good morning. Lovely day, isn't it? How do you do?” He got polite nods and mumbled greetings in return. His dark glasses were gone. His eyes were black points that flicked from side to side like tiny, darting fish.

Horace dropped completely out of sight, pressing his face against the seat. He squeezed the leestone between his forefinger and thumb and realized he was counting, his brain marking off seconds on its own, as it sometimes did.
Seventeen, eighteen
—how long did it take to walk to the back of the bus?

Thirty-five. Forty
. At last Horace sat up slowly and peeked. The thin man, improbably, had folded himself into a seat. He was right in front of the rear doors, his back to Horace, the stairway the only thing separating them. His long-fingered hands were wrapped around his head as though he was deep in thought.

Any moment now, they would pass the House of Answers. If Horace had any chance of getting off the bus unseen, he would have to sneak out behind the thin man and hope that the man didn't turn around. He reached up and yanked the cable to call for a stop. The chime sounded. The bus began to slow. The man was still facing forward. Horace stood, his eyes boring into the back of the thin man's head. The man's hands, thrust into his thick black hair,
did
have too many joints, and his pinkies were crooked, almost like second thumbs. And that bitter burning smell—brimstone? Horace wanted to retch.

Just as he stepped down to reach for the rear doors, the bus lurched to a stop, nearly tumbling Horace into the man. The thin man lifted his head and inhaled sharply. He began to turn, his limbs bending and twisting like a spider's.

The doors opened. Horace leapt from the top step. As he hit the sidewalk, he remembered Mrs. Hapsteade's words:
“Do not run.”
But he ran. He sped away from the bus as fast as his too-long legs would let him, cursing his too-shaggy hair that fell across his eyes.

He was just reaching top speed when a voice called out,
clear and loud: “Hey! Here!” Horace slowed. A girl in a green hoodie stood in the doorway of a bookstore, waving at him. The girl from the bus—but that was impossible! No one had gotten off ahead of him. “Here,” she said again, gesturing impatiently.

Horace glanced back at the bus. His stomach crumpled. The thin man was unfolding from the rear doors, a savage scowl tearing his long face in two. Horace darted toward the bookstore, hoping desperately the thin man wouldn't see him. The girl heaved the door open and rushed in ahead of him.

The girl was tiny, but she had a confident, feline swagger. She strode deep into the store, Horace at her heels. At the very back, she pushed open a door marked
STAFF ONLY
. They plowed through a break room, where a plump middle-aged lady watched them pass with wide eyes, apparently too startled to say anything. “Sorry,” Horace mumbled. They burst through another door and out into a cramped, shadowed alleyway behind.

The girl spun to face him, throwing her hood back to reveal long black hair. Her eyes bored into him, dark and intense. “Did he see you?”

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Were there any others? Like him?”

She was a fast talker. It took a moment for the words to sink in. There were others like the thin man? “No, no way,” Horace said. It was an almost unthinkable thought.

The girl leaned in, continuing to look him up and down. She was about Horace's own age, but everything about her was fierce. Horace found himself taking a step back. Had he done the right thing, following her here? What did she want from him?

“You see him like I do,” the girl said. “The freak. Nobody else sees him like that.”

“I definitely don't know what you're talking about,” Horace said.

She scoffed. “Of course you do. You were hiding from him on the bus.”

“No I wasn't.”

“Oh my god, you were. The question is,
Why
were you hiding?”

But Horace couldn't wrap his head around a sensible answer to that question, even if he'd wanted to trust this girl. He was hiding because a strange old lady in a secret curiosity shop had told him to, hiding because he didn't know how a marble—even a mysterious one—was supposed to protect him. And protect him from what? Who was the thin man? What did he want? Horace's fear and his frustration curdled into irritation. He straightened and frowned down at the girl. “Why are
you
hiding?” he fired back.

“No, no—you seem confused. I'm not hiding me, I'm hiding you. I was doing fine. I only led you back here because I want to know what's up with you. I thought I was the only one.”

“The only one what?”

She leaned back and squinted her eyes, measuring him. Then she said in an annoyingly patient tone, like she was talking to a child, “Look. You were the one running. There are only two reasons to be running like that: either you're in a hurry to be somewhere, or you're in a hurry to
not
be somewhere. And don't tell me you're late for an important meeting.”

An important meeting—maybe. But he wasn't about to mention the House of Answers. “No meeting. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Oh, wow. You're a really bad liar. It sort of makes me not trust you.”

Horace laughed. “That's like . . . the opposite of—”

“Tell me again why I helped you?”

“I have no idea,” Horace said, exasperated. “I didn't even need help.” Of course this was not true, not at all. He'd been running blindly, terrified, and he'd followed her back here to apparent safety, to a place he'd never have come on his own.

The girl gave a disappointed sigh, as if reading his mind. “I'm not feeling very appreciated. Is this how you always are?”

That wasn't even a fair question—nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

The girl hitched up her small black backpack and pulled her hood over her head. “I'm going now,” she said. “Good luck with all your, um . . . not hiding. Maybe we could call it cowering?” She began to walk away.

Cowering—a mean thing to say, even if she might be right.
He didn't think he liked this girl at all. “Hey, wait,” Horace called out. “That man. The thin man.” The girl turned and glared at him silently, walking backward now, her eyes deep and simmering. Horace asked, “Who is he?
What
is he? And will he still be out there?”

“He roams. Try not to roam in the same direction.”

“What about the bus? You got off first, but I didn't see you. How did you do that?”

Her face softened into clear-eyed innocence. “I definitely don't know what you're talking about,” she said, and turned her back on him. Several yards down the alley she stopped, glanced one last time at Horace, and then disappeared through another doorway he couldn't quite make out. Clearly she knew her way around.

Once she was gone, Horace tried to get his bearings—physically and otherwise. He had no idea what to make of the girl. She obviously knew more about the thin man than he did, but she hadn't given him any new information at all. Except to suggest that there were more thin men out there, a thought that made Horace shudder.

He followed the alleyway to his left and was surprised to discover that it opened out onto Wexler Street. Maybe he could still make it to the House of Answers, after all. But if it was true that the thin man roamed, he seemed to do a lot of roaming in this neighborhood. Horace would have to be very careful. After a cautious look up and down the sidewalk, he headed north. Before long, Horace spotted the
Laundromat—and just beyond, and the alley that led to the House of Answers. He quickened his pace, still scanning ahead and behind.

And then just as he was about to round the corner, the thin man stepped out of the alley, directly into his path.

H
ORACE FELL BACK
,
PRESSING HIMSELF AGAINST THE WINDOW
of the Laundromat. Remembering what Mrs. Hapsteade had said, he fixed his eyes ahead, not daring to look in the thin man's direction. Horace hoped beyond hope that the thin man hadn't noticed him, that the scrawny green awning above was helping to hide him even now. He gripped the leestone tightly in his pocket, willing the thin man to go away.

“Come out, come out,” the thin man sang, his notes cruel and lilting. Goose bumps prickled up and down Horace's body, tugging his skin so hard it hurt. The man gave a long, thoughtful hum, like a greedy man contemplating a table full of delicious food.

And then, almost without thinking, Horace pulled the leestone from his pocket. He stepped out from under the awning and, in the same motion, threw the leestone underhand,
hurling it high into the air, far out over the street. Even as it left his hand, Horace thought,
Why am I doing this?
The leestone rose into the sunlight, shimmering violet. It fell into the far lane of the road and shattered, releasing a shrill, almost animal cry that Horace could hear over the sound of the cars. A plume of purple smoke spiraled into the air.

The thin man leapt after the leestone like a predator after prey. Horns blared as traffic jolted to a stop around him, but he paid the cars no mind. He began to circle the remains of the leestone.

Waiting to see no more, Horace darted into the alley. He took the stairs at the end in a single leap, landing hard. He fumbled for the handle of the small blue door, muttering his name. “Horace Andrews, Horace F. Andrews, please let me in. I need to get in. Need, need, need.” He tugged once, twice, and the door swung open. He ducked inside, so full of fear already that he scarcely felt the cramped tunnel's chokehold as the door closed firmly behind him. He ran through the passageway and down the stairs, through the thick tunnel of birdsong, bursting into the House of Answers.

The room seemed even more vast and deserted than it had the day before. “Hello?” he called. His voice echoed. He approached the podium. The quill and the ink were still there, and the guest book was open. But the page was blank—his entry from yesterday was nowhere to be seen. “Hello? Mrs. Hapsteade?” No reply.

He slumped to the floor at the foot of the podium, letting
his fear seep slowly out through the cold stone floor beneath him. He'd escaped from the thin man—twice!—to get here, and for what? He was safe, but the place was abandoned. No one knew what had just happened. He still had no answers.

After a long, miserable time, Horace got to his feet. He might as well do what he could on his own. There was something here in this place, something he had to know. He could feel it. But the place was so huge, so overwhelmingly full. He had no idea where to begin.

He lifted the sturdy white quill and dipped it in the ink, unsure what else to do. He started to fill in his name, address, and age, as he had done yesterday, his words once again a beautiful deep blue. He paused briefly to think about the final two columns, and then wrote: